


Anyone With Their Wits About Them

by orphan_account



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort Fiction Genre, Mentioned Physical Abuse and Dark Emotional Themes, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 15:25:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17727791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Dweller is ashamed of his growing greed but he can't help it anymore than his desire to help people.





	Anyone With Their Wits About Them

"If you please, kind hunter... when the night passes, s'pose... we could be friends, maybe? Now, I know I hardly deserve it but... well, I just had to ask, you know?" He chokes out a weak laugh, nervously playing with the shreds of crimson cloth obscuring his gaunt face. Though he pauses and occasionally stutters, his words are as crystalline in narrative as Sunday service's bells. His beautiful voice stands in direct contrast to his grotesque image, laced with an understandably fractured self-esteem but also an unmistakable, even bold, glimmer of hope. "Out of line, perhaps so, but, well... Give it a thought, if you wouldn't mind, o'course..."

The Hunter is always stricken with surrealism when in the Dweller's company. How is it that those most cursed in appearance always have the most pleasant of song? More vulgar to behold than death itself, it was nearly impossible to look directly at the Dweller - the creature was aware of this even though he couldn't recall ever seeing himself in a mirror, being blind and all. Still, regardless of one's visual presentation, it's amazing how easy it is to charm others with only a few lyrics. The Hunter studies the creature, absently curious what exactly is to be found beneath all of that fabric stretched across the cold tiled flooring. _Something almost human, something almost certainly not._ The way the blanket folds at the Dweller's waist suggests that the sentient mass of flesh has legs. Perhaps the Dweller's feet were as gnarled and exaggerated in length as his hands are. Can he walk? Is this grotesque oversized gremlin bound to Yharnam by invisible chains as so many souls here are or is the Dweller a willing captive that simply delights in this filthy environment?

The Dweller's bony fingers curl in and out of the cloth draping over his skeleton. He pulls it down just enough to conceal his glassy eyes, the tightening of shadow around his gaunt face further highlighting the Dweller's rotting teeth here in the Cathedral Ward's dim light. The Dweller shifts uncomfortably and it occurs to the Hunter that he has not yet responded to the Dweller's inquiry. During his long journey, the Hunter had lost what little sense of proper social etiquette he might have once had - he'd developed a bad habit of lingering around too silently for too long and invading people's personal bubbles merely for the sake of science. He wasn't intentionally being rude, the Hunter was just naturally curious about people even though he himself had very little to ever say. That and there was a rare comfort to be found in those still alive here in a slowly but surely decaying realm. 

The Hunter steps forward, unconsciously needing to hear the Dweller's breathing to double check that the Hunter was indeed sharing space between a living being and that the peace around him wasn't some elaborate trick or dream he might wake up from  at any moment. His heart screams at any god or demon that will listen to not throw him back into another evening of bloodshed and chaos. The Hunter kneels down on one knee and thumbs at a loose thread hanging from a corner of the cloth. The Hunter has never seen the Dweller without the blanket and knowing the monsters around these parts, perhaps it wasn't a blanket at all. The Hunter doesn't know what he's expecting - would it feel like how cloth should feel or would it strike him in texture more akin to hair or, _heaven forbid_ , skin? 

An awkward muffled sound worms out from the Dweller. He knows he's being stared at and that's fine, let the lad look as long as he pleases, but he isn't sure what to make of the Hunter's close proximity. Having spent so long sheltered away from mankind has rendered the Dweller ill equipped to deal with processing new situations or details. The Dweller is fairly certain that he's close to finding that which he has spent an eternity and a half searching for, however there is a narrow but deep chasm separating him and the treasure of companionship. If he can successfully jump over it, then he'll have found paradise. If he fails, he'll fall down once more into a familiar hell of prolonged loneliness. Who can say when he'll get another chance, if another chance would ever be granted.

The Hunter is difficult for any normal man to read and for the Dweller he's downright impossible. Though enigmatic, the Dweller feels relatively safe in his company. The Hunter has yet to demonstrate any propensity for physical malice towards the Dweller, nary raising blade high enough to meet eye level and though he's been a bit rough with the chapel on occasion during his quest for loot, needlessly breaking vases and pottery,  all things considered this hunter was comparatively tame when lined alongside all the others. He was strange, yes, but the Dweller quite liked that about the Hunter.

Based on previous experiences, there are three modes people typically take with the Dweller upon meetings. The first is revulsion and fear; this usually leads to fleeing, either on the part of the Dweller or the other party. The second is disgust and hatred; this always results in the Dweller making himself scarce, taking refuge in hidden rooms and compartments known only to him and the rats that infest this terrible landscape.

The third is rare and most impressionable. Once in a wolf's moon, a soul more odd than himself will glide through these parts on angelic wings. 'Odd' in kindness and intent. Desperate but grateful beggars, unruly but bemused thieves, and tired but tender whores seeking shelter were the Dweller's closest allies. Though they never stayed long enough to share tea, these degenerates through  gentle actions and musings had proven to the Dweller what he'd always suspected: that mankind at its core, although twisted, warped, and charred, is ultimately a force for good.

The Dweller loved chatting, no matter how trite the subject matter, and these people always had the most interesting stories to tell. Many of them considered themselves to be crazed - the Dweller wasn't able to comment on what constitutes for sane and insane but he had tried to comfort them all the same. Surely being ill in the head was not a great enough sin to be deemed worthy of hellfire if one is amiable and gracious. He truly felt this way with every fiber of his ashen being.

One rendezvous in particular was seared in the Dweller's mind.

They'd been a matching set - 'twins', as they had called themselves. Two ladies of the night that had escaped the raised hand of their pimp. Though they had reacted as most do upon first catching glimpse of the Dweller's unholy face, they had calmed far quicker than anyone else upon hearing his cries of dread that echoed over their own.  The twins had never met such a pitiful man - strangely, this pleased them on some unknowable level. It'd taken a fair deal of coursing but they were finally able to convince the Dweller to come out from behind the urns where he cowered.

It'd been the younger sister that introduced herself first - he could hear her skirt ruffle along the floor as she curtseyed. The elder mimicked the gesture. Why they had apologized to the Dweller that enchanted evening, he still had no idea even after all this time. They stated their reason for intruding on the chapel's grace and begged for sanctuary. The Dweller was in no position to grant or deny that - or any request. This puzzled the sisters who then asked if he was not the master of the ward? Such whimsical sentiment had flushed his cheeks scarlet - _oh, heavens no_ , he answered with shocked guffaw. _He held less authority over Odeon than the roaches and ticks._

The younger laughed politely, as if she thought he had cracked a funny. It was no joke but he had loved the sound of her humor so much that he didn't think to correct her.

 _If not the master, perhaps a tour guide?_ The elder's voice was coated even thicker in honey than her sister's. The Dweller must have been visibly flustered because they then laughed together, delighting in his shyness. Stammering, he supposes there would be no harm in showing them around; it would be in bad form to turn away a guest, especially of the fairer variety. The weather outside was ghastly and there was more than enough room here for two tiny maidens.

They asked him many questions as they drifted through the towers like ghosts. He'd never spoken aloud so much in his whole life. It'd been as though the women had opened a sealed valve in him and now he couldn't stop talking even if he wanted to. And he didn't want to stop talking. By God, he wanted only to talk and in turn have someone to talk to. 

He eventually led them to the kitchen, suspecting they must be famished at this hour. They asked if it would truly be alright and if so, might he spare what stale bread was left from the previous night? _Stale bread!_ The Dweller howled in horror. _My dear lasses, I should give you everything you see before you and should you still hunger afterwards, I would stake my life on searching the streets for more._

And they began to sob - and he sobbed along with them. How abhorrent this world was that a token of common courtesy could break grown adults. They cried and cried and cried as they ate, their dainty little mouthfuls of meats, cheeses, and wine softened by endless tears.

Finishing their meal _, - ah, they had eaten so little! Less than the steeple birds! -_ the Dweller led the sisters past the Tomb of Oedon - he apologized profusely for the dust that dirtied their dresses. Underneath the grand staircase was a walled off room that he insisted they would be safe in. This was his room but it is theirs now - he pleads their forgiveness that he does not have a second bed to bring out and hopes they will be comfortable sharing the one together. The mattress is large enough that they might sleep apart at arm's length. He showed the mechanism for opening and closing the trap door marking the room's exit and delicately adds that they can stay for as long or short as they like.

Though he can't see it, they are peering at him, half-expecting him to insist that he join them tonight between the sheets. But he doesn't - he didn't have the knowledge to fully understand their profession and lifestyle and even if he had, he wasn't capable of performing such crassness. Instead he wishes them free of nightmares and turns to leave - the younger sister opens her mouth to protest but the elder silences her.

He slinks off back to his post towards the front of the chapel, riding on a cloud of bliss. The candles warm the area with a lovely ambiance and enough heat not to be too uncomfortable on colder days. He also likes the easy access the open area grants him to multiple branches of the church. It's important to have reign over as much space as possible lest monsters or villains enter from either side. He nestles into his favorite spot between a cluster of urns. They are large jars but he is much larger so he has to get down on all fours to conceal himself. He regularly tries making himself smaller than he is actually is; when standing at full height, his shadow completely engulfs even the tallest of men.  He doesn't like being big - being big makes him scarier and apparently he is already scary enough. How nice it must be for mice.  _Fortunate are those born insignificant!_  

His nostrils flair at a familiar scent and his head turns towards one of the sisters standing at the doorframe - he isn't sure which one until she thanks him for all that he has done. The Dweller doesn't respond, confused that she would trek all this way just to say that. He can hear the elder approaching him, her bare feet scuttling lightly over the tiles - _too lightly_. He curses himself for not having the forethought to bring her slippers. Her feet must be blistered - _oh, and he had made her walk like that all throughout the church! Goddamn him!_ _Thirty flogs would not be enough to redeem his insolence!_

But she thinks nothing of the open sores caking her heels. Sitting down next to him, gingerly folding her skirt underneath her bottom, she tells him that her sister has fallen asleep - this is the first night in four that she has been healthy and happy enough to do so.

They sit there in silence for a long while, the Dweller too bashful to speak and the prostitute perfectly at ease in the stillness of the chapel.

Presumably confusing him for a priest, she confesses to him that she is ready to die but chooses not to do so because although suicidal, she is not a murderer. Her own escape from this miserable city would have the unintended effect of killing her last remaining family and only friend. She owes her sister too much to betray her like that.

When she leans on his shoulder, his whole body freezes and the Dweller may as well be a stone gargoyle, assuming he wasn't one already.

_More than life, I hate owing people. I'm always owing someone somewhere for something - it's been this way ever since Father and Mother passed away and our land and inheritance was stolen from us. I owe my parents, I owe the debt collectors, I owe the johns, and I owe God. Now I owe you too. I cannot repay you in gold or clean blood here in this world and I fear I won't be able to do so in the next either._

The Dweller, still paralyzed, doesn't move beyond the fluttering of parched lips, _you owe me nothing and I worry you are as blind as I, unable to see that it is I who owes you._

She exhales with a short muted chuckle, her breath tickling his neck.  _I hate owing people,_ she repeats.

It hits the Dweller like a brick upside the head that it is not her breath now dancing along his skin but rather the Hunter's. He snaps out from the trappings of memory, dizzied by the separating of past and present. When and how did he get so close? Why has he taken so much interest in the Dweller's precious blanket? _What is it that you want from me, hunter? Have I not offered enough in return for your efforts? Do I still owe you?_

"If not a friend..." The Dweller is very slow and careful with choosing his next words, the fear of misreading the situation at hand all too evident by  quiver in tone and body. His mouth rolls over each syllable with such meekness that it sounds as if he'll die right then and there, "...p-perhaps... maybe... just maybe... if it is... needed... a lover, then?"

The Hunter raises a brow, unsure if he heard the creature correctly.

The Dweller hesitantly grazes the back of his knuckles along the inside of the Hunter's thigh, letting the other man know that his hearing was good and well. When the Hunter doesn't provide an answer, the Dweller of Odeon Chapel retracts himself and draws his body closer to the ground, bowing his head so low that his nose scrapes the surface. If he has offended the Hunter, being beaten would be the lesser of punishments.

A cold draft of wind sneaks past the entrance from outside and snuffs out a candle.

"I'm going to tell you something and if you ever need me to say it again, come find me," the Hunter says, devoid of any discernible emotion or context. He slides a finger under the Dweller's chin and forces his head upward, looking the Dweller straight in his fog coated eyes. "You know not what you are capable of and how much power you hold. If there is something you want, you are fully within your own abilities of acquiring it. You had already gained my friendship without ever needing to beg for it. Greed is only a vice to those deemed undeserving; I tell you here and now and do not question me lest you defame me as a liar, you have earned your prize both in this and the next world."

The Hunter stands up and leaves the chapel, his sword's dragging echoing all through the church.

The Dweller stares unblinkingly into the empty space where the Hunter had stood, wondering if it would be alright to follow the other man into the morning's sunshine.

_Suppose it wasn't alright._

_Suppose it was._

_Suppose it wasn't. Suppose it was._

_Suppose it wasn't. Suppose it was. Suppose it wasn't._

_...suppose it was._


End file.
